April and May involved both mucho miles and major milestones!
After months of breathless anticipation, we finally took our long-awaited trip to Austria in April (the morning after Jeff did a fabulous job leading the Bath Community Seder) -- both to take The Sound of Music Tour and experience the whole Kinderhotel concept touted by many of our ex-pat friends. Neither disappointed!
Although I must say we were quite surprised to wake up on the first morning of our "spring break" to find this mularkey:
Happy.... Easter?
Our hotel was actually right over the border in Germany, and the accommodations were perfect for a family with 2 small children. The restaurant was family-style and Josie quickly gained back the weight she had lost during her illness the week prior. She loved German food; I have never seen the kid eat so much in her short life. Boiled beef, schnitzel with noodles, crisp apple strudel, she loved it all.
The kids' club was a mixed bag -- such a great deal, 10-5pm daily as much as you needed, and lots of great activities like pottery, necklace-making, etc. BUT we didn't really anticipate how few Anglophones there would be. Actually there were exactly three - a Northern Irish dad married to a Luxembourgian mom and their two children, who weren't always at the kids' club at the same time. So that limited Josie's playing and friend-making capabilities significantly. At the beginning she didn't want to go and Hugo was great, but that dynamic gradually flipped until Josie had befriended enough of the teachers to have fun and Hugo, feeling acute separation anxiety, would start to wail as soon as we hit the hallway where the club was!
Pay no attention to the boy behind the curtain.....
Honestly, we were so busy sightseeing we didn't use the club as much as we otherwise might have anyway. Salzburg is a lovely city, super clean, easy to get around, lots to do -- so we went in pretty much every morning to sightsee, starting with the way cool Fortress Hohensalzburg, built in the 800s by the "Prince-Archbishops" who ruled Salzburg when it was still an independent municipality. You'll recognize it from any iconic Salzburg shot (like... from the intro shots in The Sound of Music. If you're already sick of hearing about The Sound of Music, FYI, you might just want to stop reading now!)
The Fortress boasts both the city's most amazing views...
And the slightly cool, slightly creepy Marionette museum, which supplied the marionettes in the Sound of Music "Lonely Goatherd" scene!
We also explored the city's Modern Art Museums looking for a Klimt or 2... sadly, they had all been shipped to Vienna for the birthday boy's 200th celebration, but instead there was a monster exhibit for kids!
Why be content with this....
When you could see this?
But let's get right to the heart of the matter -- THE TOUR. OMG, it was everything we could have hoped for and more. The tour guide was dressed in traditional Bavarian garb. She played all the music and everyone (except a few mortified husbands) sang along with gusto. We hit all the filming locations in the area, including...
The Hills are Alive! (Intro scenery)
Church where Maria gets married
Back of the house, where lake scenes were filmed
So, a needle pulling thread (Mirabell Gardens)
Front of the Von Trapp House
I am Sixteen, going on Seventeen....
It was a blast... I think even Jeff would grudgingly admit he enjoyed it. And we even got to re-enact walking up the Mirabell Garden steps to sing the finale of "Do a Deer."
Of course, there IS more to Salzburg than the Sound of Music (though devotees of the film represent 300,000 of the city's 1 million visitors annually). Mozart was born and raised here, and we visited his childhood home, to see his first piano and lots of family heirlooms.
The kinderhotel, as I said was fab, and while we didn't use the kids' club as much as we thought, there were 2 nice perks, one of them being Giant Beers Without Children At 4pm, which we attended religiously:
Ahhh... childless beers. And look at the blanket they bring out in case you get chilly. How cute is this place?
And the other being Josie's really cute, daily semi-private swimming lesson. Here in Europe they appear to begin lessons with the breaststroke, which doesn't seem overly intuitive, but hearing "Frog Josie, Frog! Ja! Ja voll!" was pretty motivating, though half the time she would just break down and giggle because her teacher was really cute.
You want me to do what, swim? (batbatbat eyelashes)
Meaty, on the other hand, had tons of fun crawling around, but he didn't sleep very well. Literally, he slept like a total weirdo:
And after a week, Josie was starting to sound like Herman Cain: "Nein, nein, nein!"
Alas, after about 316 Giant Beers, 127 glasses of Riesling and 563 renditions of "Edelweiss," (not to mention 23 episodes of Rescue Me watched on the iPad because German TV SUCKS) it was time to go home, and celebrate Meaty's first birthday! Josie and I had originally decided upon a Curious George theme, because every time we read a Curious George Story we think he looks like Hugo, with a banana cake (get it) and George-themed decorations. But Mommy failed to read the fine print on the Amazon website, and the decorations were coming from California and destined to arrive sometime in June.
SO it was on to Plan B: Dinosaurs! But I had already bought everything for the monkey-banana cake, so that stayed in place, along with an attempted "jungle" icing that from the pix I posted on Facebook everyone thought was guacamole.
Prehistoric Monsters on the Avocado Gateau of Death
Whatever, I didn't hear any complaints....
until it was over!
Hard to believe Hugo is one already! That went fast. He doesn't walk yet, but cruises with confidence. He doesn't really talk yet, but sings, raps, and tickles the ivories. He still probably best loves to eat.
Then the always-adventurous Hanna and Papa came to visit, and we all piled in a Ford minivan (which doesn't exist in America, sadly, because it is way cool and I would totally buy one) for our first trip to Cornwall! Cornwall is on the western coast of England and Fowey, where we were, is home to Daphne Du Maurier, and chock-full of cute shops, fishing boats, cobblestoned streets and sweet little houses.
Sticking with the "kinder" theme, we stayed at a great hotel catering to families. Josie got to go look for eggs from the hotel chicken coop every morning, there was a play room and a trampoline and all you had to do for a cream tea or puree for Hugo or glass of chardonnay, any time day or night, was snap your fingers. Best of all - they came TO OUR ROOM and collected the kids at 8am that Sunday morning so we could relax, read the paper and have a quiet breakfast.
Wow, we are starting to sound like people who never want to spend time with our children. This is NOT the case. They are delightful little humans. But we will never pass on a real chance to spend time with each OTHER, if offered. We also call that more of a "vacation" instead of merely a "trip."
Josie's favorite activity by far was crabbing. I'm not trying to draw any distinctions here, but when she crabbed with Daddy she caught one and when she crabbed with Mommy she caught three.
Beautiful view of the harbor from our hotel
Rainbow Brite!
We also visited the Eden Project, which is a truly amazing research and education center exploring different ecosystems and obviously hoping to inspire conservationist tendencies among its visitors. It's HUGE - we only had time to visit the Rainforest and Mediterranean biodomes, so we're eager to go back!
The incredible Eden Project
No rest for Daddy -- he was off to Miami for a well-deserved 40th birthday junket with his college friends, and after a brief return to Bath yesterday flew the other direction to Beijing for a business conference. We're looking forward to those photos!
Today we got to see the Olympic Torch pass through Bath - that was pretty cool. Quick shot of that:
No, that is not Orlando Bloom running with it
And after a brief break from travel for the kids and Mommy, we're looking forward to a busy summer, with trips to Paris, SC, Martha's Vineyard, Stockhom and yes, back to Cornwall! See you soon, probably from the road! A bientot!
Barista at Caffe Nero: Where's that accent from? Are you American? Beth: Yes, guilty. Barista: I'm taking my first trip to America next month. That's why I asked. I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop talking about it. Beth: Oh, great! Where are you going? Barista (rolls eyes in ecstasy): Orlando. Beth (surprised): Oh, Orlando! Are you going to Disney? Barista: Yes. I'm a bit of a Harry Potter nut, so I'm planning on spending an entire day on that bit.
Oh, you Brits. Sometimes you are so ironical I can't hardly stand it. I couldn't even bring myself to ask my favorite barista, who makes all my skinny lattes and lets me hide in the downstairs seating for hours hunched over my laptop, if she knew that lots of the Harry Potters were filmed just miles from HERE. Lacock, Castle Combe, and in fact I have laughed to see dozens of costumed American Harrys visiting THOSE places in search of a little Hogwarts magic.
Lacock Abbey, where Harry Potter was filmed, hence all the little Hogwarts
If I had asked, she would have looked at me like the loon I am. Why drive twenty minutes to one of the loveliest spots in the English countryside when you could spend 9 hours in coach, then battle crowds of cranky spring breakers to wait in line for hours for one ride, eat terrible food, and THEN find out Snow White's Scary Adventure has been closed down (thank God!). Silly me!
March '10: Lady, I do not like what went down on that ride.
We've been plenty busy here this winter. I'm still working away, while spending all the free time I can with these crazy kids. Hugo and I are enrolled in a kids' program at one of the museums here in Bath. It's called "Yearlings" and it's so super-crunchy I keep thinking I'll see one of my fellow Nyack mums pop up. We've learned lots of nature songs, made snowdrop finger puppets and we've been practicing a Maypole dance which we'll put to the test in about a month.
The idea behind this class is that we spend the first half-hour or so singing, then crafting together with finger paints or clay, then most of the mums peel off to work on a more grownup project (I've been sewing the same "Seed Baby" for about three weeks) while the babes play on the floor. Last week, while I was stitching the head on, I heard an 18-month-old girl to my right burst into tears. I turned and her mum, hovering over the Easter basket they were assembling together, gazed up at me mournfully. "Excuse me," she said as evenly as possible, "but your son just bit the head off our baby chick." Hugo, clinging to the side of the table, grinned and then swallowed in a loud gulp, cotton wool, beak, googly eyes and all, as the poor girl howled. My son, the budding artist. I'm so proud.
He's musical, too!
We've been out twice to the countryside to visit our dear friends, E and Belgian Dad of scarf-tossing, candy-nabbing AMIP fame. There are always plenty of dirty jokes and scrumptious meals, and E's daughter C and Josie each time reunite like they just saw each other last week. It's really sweet. E's family manse is lovely and comfortable and set on a bucolic piece of property with flowers and ancient, crumbly outbuildings and loads of streams perfect for racing Pooh sticks.
Apparently that wasn't what Josie pictured when we suggested "Pooh Sticks", but she liked it anyway!
Belgian Dad: The Perfect Specimen of English Countryside Manliness
The second day of our Countryside Weekend Away was "Mothering Sunday," England's (earlier) version of Mother's Day. Let's rewind a week first, and review a conversation with Josie in which I reminded her that I was the ONLY person in our family for whom she didn't craft a lovely Valentine. She pertly replied, "Well surely I won't forget to make you a Mother's Day card, Mommy, because you're my only Mommy." Well hmmph then!
Given that Mothering Sunday followed a Belgian Dadding Saturday Night (read: wine-soaked and wholly inappropriate), I was really only looking forward to the "lie-in," and perhaps coffee and Hello! magazine in bed. Lo and behold, at about 8:03 the door bursts open and American Dad announces, "Emily is having breakfast in bed. But I figured you wouldn't want to eat breakfast in someone else's bed." So while this was not quite the decadent, lazy morning I had in mind, I did get some lovely cards and an extra 3 minutes of sleep.
Hmmm...I guess that bedding is a tad pristine for breakfast with my children
The weather has gotten quite warm and sunny (until yesterday when it all turned crap) and since we have our lovely new garden, we bit the bullet and bought an overpriced wooden playhouse for Josie (they're called Wendy Houses here). Jeff was nervous given the company offered a playhouse construction service for about 150 quid, but I was confident after reading the reviews and the instructions that we could do it ourselves. After all, we've constructed two sets of bookshelves, a nightstand and a dining room table since moving to Britain, how much harder could this be?
Frank Gehry -- ok, Mike Brady -- look out!
The answer, and I'm not being at all sarcastic, is not that much harder! The instructions were in English, well-written and relatively straightforward. Frankly, the only buzzkill was when we dragged the convalescing Josie (home and on the couch with what turned out to be a horrible, 6-day case of tonsillitis, raging fever and ear infection) outside to say "Surprise! Happy Children's Day" and she half-opened her eyes to mumble, "very nice garden shed." (we'd had to explain away the various playhouse-shaped parts being stained and treated in the garden over several days).
Seriously, we did this!
The finished product
Josie recovered just in tie for the various end-of-winter-term, Easter-themed activities. While this time of year does require lots of 'splaining about why the E. Bunny doesn't visit Northern Hampton, it this year also brought out my competitive nature with the annual Easter Bonnet competition. Last year, hugely pregnant and feeling less than creative, I literally cut out an oval of pink felt, glued a ribbon on each side to tie under Josie's chin, and helped her craft pipe-cleaner bows and tissue paper flowers to stick haphazardly onto it.
Thankfully no pictures of this atrocity survive. And more thankfully, I was too busy humiliating myself at the easel in Painting 100 to attend the Easter Bonnet Parade at school to be humiliated by my substandard haberdashery skills (if this year's entries indicate the level of construction demonstrated at last year's parade).
This year I wasn't about to play, child. I started browsing on Amazon early for straw hats and embellishments. Actually it was Josie who discovered our central design element -- finding rose-shaped pinecones in a friend's front garden, which we painted and sparkle-penned to heights of beauty. Claire pitched in while attending the still-poorly Josie and constructed some lovely, complementary tissue flowers (nothing like the third-week-of-a-bad-head-cold-looking crumples I constructed last year). The result was quite fetching, we thought. Of course, just as I was ready to call it "complet" girlfriend insisted on beadazzling the whole thing. Must be the Jersey in her DNA.
Sorry, Martha. I know your eyeballs just burst into flames.
Slightly waifish from her week of illness, but always ready for a parade
Oh, I love a parade!
The updates on Hugo... Hugo has more teeth than Donny Osmond, can cross a room on all fours in about three seconds, and inhales every meal like it's his last. He isn't walking yet; his favorite activity is cruising around the coffee table, throwing every book and coaster on the floor and chewing on all the remotes. Our gorgeous table also now boasts little tooth marks all around the edges. It looks like we live with a beaver. But he's full of beans, absolutely sweet and most importantly CHILL.
Mmmmmm is for magazine!
I should wrap it up 'cuz we're off a$$-early on Saturday (mere hours after Jeff leads the Bath Seder, which should resemble, um, NO seder ever attended by these unsuspecting locals) for our Spring holiday in Salzburg! Well, the hotel (a Kinderhotel very popular with some of my Parisian pals, sounds like Club Med with fewer "Crazy Signs" and more sausages) is in Germany but right on the border, and the driving force behind this trip is, indeed, the Sound of Music and our daughter's love for everything that comes with it. We'll snip up our curtains, damage deposit be damned, climb trees in the Royal gardens and skip around the fountain, twirl on the hilltops, and halfheartedly attempt to keep Passover (door bells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with...matzoh?)
I don't think so.
The real appeal of this trip is the kids' and baby clubs included in the cost of our stay. We'll see how Hugo does, but Josie is already excited for swimming and pony trekking, and -- hopefully -- learning German!
So, promise to return sooner, sometime after our return from Von Trappland, with lots of pics. And hopefully by then this silver white winter will have melted once and for all into spring!
I could make lots of excuses. I made a clandestine journey to Argentina for a much-needed tummy tuck. I was abducted by aliens who insisted on probing my brain for the secret to defeating Newt Gingrich. I was abducted by Newt Gingrich to do janitorial work in a top-secret child labor pilot program in which they curiously decided to use women suffering from baby brain instead of actual children. But really, the latter two sound like cover stories for the first, so perhaps I should just stop there.
All my fans (well my two fans, my mother and apparently Newt Gingrich) were asking, "when are you going to start writing again?" Well, the truth is I've been scratching loads and loads, just not for fun (yes, all evidence to the contrary I do find this fun). I find work fun too, though -- really fun, which makes me pretty dang lucky but leaves poor Jane and Newt crying in their Zimas. Oh, you heard me right. SPOTTED: Jane Davidson and Newt Gingrich sharing Zimas at Bar Louie on Hall Road in Sterling Heights.
He asks: how do I win married women over 55 - uh, 35 - in Romney's "Other Home State?" She asks: How can you accelerate global warming so that the UK just kind of breaks off, drifts across the Atlantic and sticks to Maine so that I can drive 17 hours to see my grandchildren like a normal person?
It could happen!
NOTE: Since publication I have learned that the light and refreshing malt beverage formerly known as Zima actually went out of production in 2008. So it seems this twisted tête-à-tête is even more nefarious than previously assumed. Did Jane envision the former Speaker's future greatness before anyone else? Was Newt trying to sell her on his completely plausible and not at all sickmaking open marriage plan? I guess we'll never know, but I was there when she received his "robocall" asking for her help with his campaign to save America, so like you, I will always have to wonder. Frankly, I just went to too much trouble with the Googling and the photoshopping to drop the Zima reference. Newt and Jane for-evah.
Any-WHO, you can see by that bizarre stream of consciousness that I've dumped blogging and Angry Birds for political clips and campaign updates. Don't even get me started on the ramifications of reapportionment and redistricting in Texas and Nevada. Overall less interesting and certainly less British.
I feel badly for such a prolonged absence. I'm all "ohmigod, no one is going to recognize the kids!"
I know, right? They grow up so damn fast!
The holidays were a whirlwind. We made our annual trek to London to celebrate my birthday week, staying at the ultraMod W in Leicester Square (picture Times Square x 100, haze of pot smoke, lots of puking and public urination, and a red rope to get past just to stumble in and crash after 67 pieces of sushi and 9 glasses of wine). We spent a lovely day and evening with former Bon Marche Mom, now Little Venice Mum I guess... and her dashing husband and lovely children. LVM and I took the girls to a puppet show on a barge --I guess what you'd expect in a nabe called "Little Venice" -- to see an interesting piece called "Brer' Rabbit meets Brer' Santa" which I really can't explain except to say there were Jamaican accents and gorgeous, expressive wooden marionettes, a fox dressed as Santa and and really cool, funky soundtrack. The girls had fun.
But they always have fun, whether they're sitting at a puppet show or inside a fireplace.
Then the dads and boys came and met us and we went to a garden center all decorated for the holidays, which doesn't sound very cool but in London that includes stalls of antique books and fancy chocolates and supercalifragalisticexpialadocious light displays.
The lovely Francesca, Josie's former favorite Bath babysitter, who's now an official nanny living in London, sadistically used her night off to come care for our offspring so that Jeff and I, along with LVM and LVD, could "hit the town," which apparently now entails, as I said above, eating 79 pieces of sushi (so I hedged) and drinking 11 glasses of wine before collapsing face down and fully clothed. We had a blast.
Someone's a little too excited for sushi
This was just my order.
Dude, that was a trippy hotel
Upon our return from Londontown we were met with the season's next Major Theatrical Event, which was the Royal High School for Girls' nativity play! Most of you have seen Josie's turn as the Christmas Star by now, but in case you are already nostalgic for holiday cheer and cross-dressing preschoolers, here's an encore presentation.
As we would be separated for most of the Festival of Light due to mine and the kids' early departure for the U.S., we celebrated "Fake Chanukah" a week early and with gusto, even having friends for latkes. Josie really got into the holiday this year; she loved lighting the candles, asked lots of questions, learned the blessings. In a country where we are completely surrounded by all things Christmas and basically No Things Chanukah (boy I miss New York at that time of year!) it's really important to celebrate together and keep our traditions.
Josie wanted to get Jeff a pocket watch. It was her idea, and we traipsed all over Bath to find the perfect one.
Somewhere in the middle of Fake Chanukah we celebrated my actual birthday. I felt very blessed this year (even though I turned 39! Father Time, we have toxic parenting issues to discuss!)
The trip to the States was fab. The flight itself was easier than I anticipated. As I approached security with two children, three carry-on bags, a stroller and an Emergency Baby Bjorn cinched around my middle, I started to fear I'd embarked upon a suicide mission. But the Heathrow airport staff were patient and helpful, and onboard the passengers actually rallied around me to help me get boarded, stowed and settled. Hugo sat quietly, dummy in mouth, for 8:41. Josie watched movies and plowed through seven sticker books before collapsing into a 2-hour nap. I even got to re-watch half of Bridesmaids!
Yup, there's me during Hugo's nap
The holidays in Port Huron and New York were terrif -- in Michigan we took Josie to see the Nutcracker in Ann Arbor with my Lemon Sister Annie and her girls, after which Josie skipped down State Street belting "Hail to the Victors." Annie joked, "keep skipping over to the admissions office! You're in! Super Early Admissions!" Lots of shopping and seeing friends, introducing Hugo around, yearly pilgrimage to the Bavarian Inn with Jeff for chicken dinner, and spending time with Awntie Emily, Nom and Pee-pa. We also took Josie to see Meadowbrook Hall, which was decorated for the holidays and just as cool as I remembered from my Girl Scout visit at age 10.
We're crazy in the PoHu!
Who are these people and how did I get here?
So many things wrong with this one I don't know where to start.
NYC was a blur of festivities - Michelle and "Butch" (Rich) trekked up from Virginia to squire us around Midtown and show Josie the tree and skaters at Rockefeller Center, the Eloise Tree at the Plaza, FAO Schwartz (sensory overload), and a New York classic: eating a hot dog while huddling against Tiffany and Co., shivering. The whole Hot Dog Episode actually illustrated what has happened between our days as Manhattan dwellers and our present-day, veddy British existence:
Jeff orders 2 hot dogs. The Hot Dog Guy yells "ketchup or mustard?" Jeff for some reason becomes panicked, whips his head over to me and barks "Beth! Ketchup or Mustard? Now!" Equally panicked, I stammer "m-m-mustard!" even though I'm a total Ketchup Girl. I recover to order ketchup for Josie, and Jeff pays the guy $27.49 for two hot dogs and a Diet Coke (okay I exaggerate, but we quickly learned that living on the UES requires laughing, closing your eyes and opening your wallet while pretending it's filled with play money. Parking for 8 hours? $62. 1L of Pellegrino? $9, etc). I'm all "Man, what happened to you?! It's just the freakin' hot dog guy, not Tony Soprano!"
We had a good laugh while we devoured the Best.HotDogs.Ever (according to Josie whose palate is quite developed for a preschooler). Said palate was really put to good use when we stood in line at the new Laduree (Michelle's dangerous obsession) on the UES for 30 minutes waiting for "vanilles" (macarons) which cost at least twice as much as in Paris (which didn't stop Michelle from buying her usual 80-pack), but delicious all the same.
With Auntie 'Chelle at the Eloise Tree in the Plaza Foyer (that's as far as we serfs get these days)
Other highlights: the always-gorgeous Alvin Ailey with my MIL, SIL and AIL (that's Aunt In Law, and she is not ailing, she's in fabulous shape), pancakes and laughs with my expecting friend W, a rockin' New Year's soiree hosted by my very stylish SIL and fam (we 4 were of course home and falling asleep on the couch by 9:30), New Year's Day bagels with friends on the UWS, a subway ride to Brooklyn to meet my friend T's new twins, and a trip to Nyack to see the house and our friends J and J and adorable funny kids. Nyack looked great; I always love to visit and shop and remember what we're heading back to, one day!!
Rockin' City Center with the Rothman/Hodin ladies
Maybe we'll get a doctor in the family after all!!
January -- already gone -- was a blur as well; Josie was overjoyed to return to school as the RHS split the nursery class, moving the older girls into a new preschool section. So Josie and her older classmates are busy doing pre-reading, letter formation, and everything else necessary to prepare them for "reception" (kindergarten) in the fall. She is really thriving in art, reading, French, music... it's amazing to see what she learns - and more importantly, what she asks - week after week.
She's really developing a style too. Check out the high-tops!
And what can we say about Hugo? He's sprouting teeth all over the place, I think we're up to five but someone else always manages to notice the latest before I do! He started crawling toward the end of the holidays and it is game.on. Of course he has no interest in the zillions of toys we and others have bought him, but is obsessed with every cord, outlet, trash can, magazine, stereo component, gadget, etc. in the house. For her part, Josie is just trying to set the parameters of coexistence.
The amazing Clairy Poppins is back on the job, so I've got 12 hours a week to work, exercise, do errands, and hopefully blog a LOT more. We've got lots of fun plans on the horizon, from a Von Trappian trip to Bavaria to Cornwall with Jeff's parents to hopefully a quick sprint to Paris.
Last week a pretty major anniversary slipped quietly by...November 9, the day we landed in Paris in 2008 to begin our European adventure. I can remember that day – and the night before, as we strapped our pajama-clad thirteen-month-old into her car seat on the plane – as if it were yesterday. And yet, sometimes it seems like we've been here ten years instead of three.
Still, three years is a long time! It's equivalent to 3/4 of my college experience. It's 3/4 of Josie's life. 3/4 of President Obama's term in office.
This "Euroversary" presented a nice chance to reflect on our experiences as a little traveling family band. But how many worth covering in detail? I settled on a Baker's Dozen. It was tough, but I think I've got our high (and low) points covered.
13. Westminster Abbey. For my 37th birthday we packed up and jumped on the Eurostar for my very first trip to London (can you believe it? A Royal-crazy like me? Until then my sole UK experience had been a 40-minute stopover in Stansted Airport). I was absolutely dazzled from the moment we landed in St. Pancras – it was Christmas season, after all, and the entire city was aglow, buzzing with shoppers, carolers, completely fulfilling every "Love Actually" fantasy. I did some solo shopping on Sloane Street, going all the way down to Chelsea; we braved Hamley's and Harrod's and had a fancy dinner at Mayfair classic Scott's. We saw Big Ben and Buckingham Palace and the Princess Diana playground. But the sight that really sticks with me, even today, is Westminster Abbey. From the Poets' corner – seeing the prim, little commemorative bricks to Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters – to the more obvious "biggies" (Mary, Queen of Scots, Sir Isaac Newton, Neville Chamberlain, Charles Darwin), it's an impressive sight.
While I wandered through, utilising the headset I usually pass up in favor of chasing Josie away from antiquities, pondering all the historic events that had taken place here (coronations of countless monarchs, the weddings of Queen Elizabeth II, Fergie and Andrew, and more recently of course Wills and Kate's nuptials) and admiring the beautiful paintings and sculptures, I came upon the side-chapel where the Protestant Elizabeth I and her Catholic sister Queen Mary are buried -- one on top of the other. It was a chills-and-goosebumps moment, absorbing the meaning behind that configuration and the national self-awareness that must have after years of bloodshed finally come, and then inspired that burial. The Latin inscription on their tomb, Regno consortes & urna, hic obdormimus Elizabetha et Maria sorores, in spe resurrectionis translates to "Consorts in realm and tomb, here we sleep, Elizabeth and Mary, sisters, in hope of resurrection". Yeah – chills, right?
12. "Crazy Signs" at Club Med in Turkey. I won't spend too much time on "Zee Crazy Signs," especially as it's pretty comprehensively covered in the video below. Let me just say that as we ventured from our new home en Angleterre, flew five hours to the former Ottoman Empire and landed in 40-degree-Celsius temps for a stress-free vacation, we had no idea how everything re: our 20 months among Les Grenouilles would come together. And it did, only too perfectly, in Crazy Signs – in other words, it wasn't us. It was them.
11. Thanksgiving 2009 (and 2010!) Turkey, cranberries, football, the Macy's Parade. It's a big day on both the Rothman and Davidson sides. After a sad 2008 observance, during which Jeff and I tucked at 9 p.m. into a defrosted Picard turkey (it was good, actually) and mostly Picard sides –save my man's favorite sweet potatoes with marshmallow topping– with macarons for dessert, I was determined to turn things around in 2009. And boy, did we -- finding a family away from home for a bona fide Yankee celebration.
We huddled at 31 Boulevard Raspail with the G-Js (you may know MJ as the American Mom in Paris), the Virginia Family, and longtime D.C. friends of mine, S and K for the Biggest Turkey Ever Purchased (still struggling a bit with the metric system, I wound up with a 22-lb bird!). We shared traditions, like MJ's Midwestern Cheesy Potatoes and Virginia Mom's Pumpkin Chiffon Pie. We all had a chuckle when Francais-challenged Jeff returned from the Droguerie d'Aujourd Hui (Overpriced Kitchen Store) with "a sharp knife for a really big chicken." Everything was delicious! The wine flowed freely! Big Al G. arrived late so we could pretend we'd had the cheese course after dinner rather than before. Josie sat and quietly consumed solid food for about 20 consecutive minutes, stopping only to wonder why everyone else at the kids' table had bailed.
And of course, the misty moment when our eyes drifted to the T.V. and our DVR'd Thanksgiving Day Parade. Hey, Fifth Avenue is looking a little dingy, aren't the decorations up yet? Where's the Empire State building? Who are these D-list balloons, like Captain Underpants and Chilly Willy? Where are Pokemon and Justin Bieber? Then, it hit us: Al Roker and the cast of Billy Elliott had been pre-empted by the Detroit parade. So, we refilled our glasses with Beaujolais and clinked to the circa-1957 Giant Papier-Mache Pilgrim Heads and Shriner-car races. It put a serious damper on our whining about missing our families and having to phone in Black Friday. After all, if Detroiters could find stuff to be thankful for, dammit so could we.
Don't know where everyone went, but more for meeeeeeeeeeee
And as an epilogue -- determined to repeat our epic feast in 2010, Virginia Family and the Amops flew/drove over to us in Merry Olde England. Eleven--that's right, eleven-- of us bunked at our place on Pulteney Street, and we're all still friends! I'll recap this meal much more briefly. I was pregnant, the bird was dry. The men went pubbing, and came home playing the "Free Association" game. The Slingbox crashed so there was no parade. We had the awesome wine the Amops brought us last year. The desserts were both amazing. Everyone caught a horrible cold, and Al cried at the end of "Love Actually." No children ate anything. The hot water heater conked out so no one showered on Fake Thanksgiving (Saturday). It was awesome. Loosh said he would come again, if there were "less princesses, more swordfighting."
Both a bird AND a bun in the oven! Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!
10. My first French lesson. As the wife of an ex-pat, I was generously treated by Danone on our arrival in Paris to something like 80 hours of private French lessons at Berlitz. But will that really be enough, I pondered... after all, I want to be fluent enough to take real cooking classes at the Ritz and converse with Josie's teachers, not to mention perhaps one of our neighbors! Ten minutes in, I was in the sub-sub-sub-basement of Hell. You see, Berlitz subscribes to a "sink or swim" teaching philosophy, as in, once you enter the classroom and sit down, not one word of English is spoken. Like, ever. I thought it would be like high school French, you know, a little days-of-the-week, some colors, maybe sing "La Marseillaise." Instead I found myself in a cold sweat, trying to explain why we had moved to Paris, where we lived, whether I had a bébé or enfant, and what it was I did exactly as a "writer." Ecrivant, it was decided, was an overblown and slightly arrogant (excusez-moi!) way to describe myself as I was neither Victor Hugo nor even that crétin Dan Brown. After an excruciating 90 minutes, I stumbled back out onto the Champs-Elysees to find the holiday lights going up, a light early-winter chill and the Arc de Triomphe looming like a tender guardian behind me.
This was my walk to French class. Not bad.
As I had procured the amazing Nonny (our lovely, lovable Swedish babysitter) and had really been looking forward to three whole hours to myself twice a week, I decided to soldier on. And soldier on I did, for about six months. When Danone awarded me another 80 hours, my Berlitz administrateur called excitedly to schedule my next round; I changed my mobile number, staged my own death and promptly signed up for the History of Paris at the American University of Paris -- and never returned to that dreadful Berlitz building again. C'est la vie. I managed to shop and eat for 20 months, just fine. Turns out our neighbors weren't wild conversationalists (though I knew enough French to understand their loud and cranky complaints about my stroller shoved under the staircase) and Josie's teachers were great at hand signals and doodled descriptions of "les poux" and the odd stray punch.
9. Joël RobuchonDinner. When we found out we were leaving Paris for the significantly less culinarily inclined (by reputation, anyway) British Isles, we made a bucket list of eateries to hit before we departed. Like every other resident of the Seventh Arrondissement, we'd often gazed longingly at Joël Robuchon's no-reservations, sit-at-the-bar restaurant and wondered how the other half lived. Well, having finalized plans to move to Bath, we decided to celebrate with Joël - so we bit the bullet, booked the babysitter for 6pm and sprinted over in the frosty February...broad daylight. I of course ordered the crazy chef's nine-course tasting menu, while Jeff more cautiously chose several dishes from the a la carte menu. Sadly, the dish-by-dish photo-essay from my meal disappeared when I upgraded my iPhone software, but I did take a couple of snaps with our regular camera before we decided that made us look like dorky tourists; and while we were undeniably dorky we were no longer tourists.
Jeff's "cautious" meal included barely-cooked bone marrow
The experience is not quite what you'd expect. On the one hand, the service was disarmingly casual; dishes were sort of plunked in front of us (still seated at the bar) without the pomp and circumstance of a typical Parisian fine dining establishment. On the other hand, in order to avoid a spike in blood pressure you must at every opportunity laugh and toss your hair and pretend everything is free. If you ask the sommelier to recommend a glass of Bordeaux to go with your steak, you don't then ask, "err.... how much does that cost?" You just say "perfect, pour away." (the answer: more than my average pair of shoes, less than an iPad) You sign the credit card slip without looking and silently pledge to tear up your next Amex statement without opening it. All that said, the meal -- which was really our only major splurge in Paris, never having hit Plaza Athenee or the Ritz or Four Seasons or any of those joints -- was absolutely worth it. All the hype about Robuchon (and as a Top Chef devotee I've heard the hype) is justified. The food was artistic, precise, delicious. As it should be, for slightly more than a Singaporean custom-made suit and less than a Lamborghini Countach.
8. Visiting the Alhambra. Those of you who know me know I'm a closet historical fiction junkie and a Tudors supertaster. So sometime in 2009 while reading Philippa Gordon's The Red Queen I became intrigued by Catherine of Aragon's backstory. After all, by the time we meet her in Showtime's The Tudors she's a half-dried-up shrew who alternates between plotting with Spain to keep Catholicism dominant and fretting over Anne Boleyn's sumptuous bosoms bouncing all over the Hampton Court dance floor. So the history of her Spanish girlhood (embellished, I'm sure, by Gregory) was new to me: brilliant, smooth-talking Moorish doctors, decadent feasts, family drama -- all set in the magnificent Alhambra in Granada. So as our last pre-Hugo trip, I dragged the fam on a pilgrimage, described in too much detail in my blogpost on Andalucia. The "Red Fortress" was one of the most impressive places I imagine I'll ever visit; an inspiring reminder of what we can learn from other cultures -- and lose when we dismiss, discount or degrade those cultures. Suffice to say, the Moors built the main palace, complete with hot and cold running water, irrigation, and mosaics and sculptures, many of which were knocked down or painted over when the Christians invaded and set up shop in 1492. But prior to the Inquisition, the palace was a model for scientific innovation, social engagement, and religious tolerance. Spanish history during that period and in that region is fascinating -- and the Alhambra is one of those places that will always stay with me.
One of the Alhambra's bathing pools
7. Christmas Day 2008 in Paris. Though I'm now a completely committed Jew (see moment #3 below), I can't deny the importance to my background, my childhood, and my family of Christmas. I've managed to reconcile the celebration of that holiday with my family with my current faith; since our celebration on December 25 is largely secular, focused on eating delicious food, exchanging thoughtful gifts with clever tags, and now watching Josie go berserk as she dives into her stocking, it was an easier reconciliation than I might have thought, not just for me but for Jeff as well. But in 2008, we had been in Paris just a little more than a month, so dragging Josie back across the pond for Christmas (and our always wonderful Chanukah celebration with the Rothmans as well) didn't seem to make much sense. It would be my very first Christmas away from my family, and I was pretty sad about it. But that strange Christmas was all part of those early days, as strangers in a strange land, striking out on our own and finding our own traditions and community -- so it remains a very special and poignant memory for our little family.
Paris does dress up pretty for the season
We woke up Christmas morning and had a great breakfast, then, as it was a beautiful, sunny day, decided to go for a walk across Paris. The Seventh was absolutely silent; clearly its residents were either at church or home eating a big Christmas lunch. Every shop and cafe was closed. As we drew closer to the Seine things livened up. Even tourists must eat and drink somewhere on Christmas Day, so a number of popular cafes were peppered with customers. We decided it might be a good day to finally visit Notre Dame; indeed, aside from those actually attending services it was surprisingly un-crowded. There was virtually no line, so we swept right in and through without our rambunctious toddler disturbing anyone. Notre Dame is a gorgeous place anyway, and it was particularly serene and lovely on Christmas Day.
Surprisingly, not la Dame's busiest day!
We then switched gears completely and headed for the Marais. Now this was the place to be! Latkepalooza! Jewtopia! The streets were packed with our people, shopping in the city's only open boutiques and clamoring for falafel. The world-famous (and deservedly so) L'As du Falafel boasted an hour-long line for a table, so we happily settled for "the other falafel place across the street" (whose name no one knows) which was completely delicious as well. Josie had her first Israeli salad, her first pita bread, her first hummus, all of which she loves to this day. We stuffed ourselves, washed it down with some Maccabee brews, and shopped around a bit. It felt really great to be among Paris' Jewish community that day -- and took the a bit of the sting from the absence of our families. It also reinforced for me what a tight and self-sustaining family unit we three had become.
Fa-la-fel-la-la, la-la-la-la!
6. Catching my first glimpse of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. This one I can keep pretty brief. You grow up seeing the Tower in cartoons, in history books, in the forms of little desk statues and grappa bottles, reading that it's falling over, seeing it lampooned as the Leaning Tower of Pizza, etc. I was completely unprepared for how white, how perfect, how clean and lovely the whole package (Tower, Baptistery, Cathedral) in Pisa would be. You push through these crowds of smelly tourists fighting each other for gelato and the aforementioned grappa bottles, shove through this gate and there you are. And there it is - this true architectural wonder. It's really beautiful.
I'd never fill you with grappa, beautiful tower
5. Q is for Quiet by the manger's bed. There are many important moments in your child's early life. There's the birth. The bris/baby naming/christening. The first step. The first food. First tooth. And in England, there's the first Christmas pageant. We were nervous; how would our Jewish girl handle being part of the nativity? As it turns out, the show was cute, incredibly irreverent and educational (it was an "ABC Nativity," no less). And there was our little monkey, in her "Q" costume (did you know there was a "Q" present at the birth of Christ, or "Jesus Price," as she called him?) sitting on a bench with her fellow actors, waiting for her debut: rocking back and forth, swinging her legs, and then --ooh-- pulling a cheeky daredevil move, seeing how far she could lean back. I was already on my feet when CLONK! Back she went and smack went her head on the floor. One, two, six and I was at the front of the auditorium, scooping her up, hugging her and assessing the scene. The letter N was already making her wobbly descent down the stairs and O was rising to approach the stage. I could feel Josie shaking, trying desperately not to cry, so I whispered in her ear that the show must go on and everyone was waiting to see her be the star she was. Did she remember her line? Yes. Well then, on you go and the rest is theater history. Boy, was it a proud moment. Now I know how Larry Olivier's mama felt after his first turn as the Great Dane.
"Q" is for Quick Recovery!
4. Touring Veuve-Clicquot. Sliding across the immaculate marble floors of the grand Cliquot residence. Descending down into the caves, each stone step engraved with a harvest year. It was cold, damp, spidery, but somewhere within bottles were turned, sediment was clustering, yeast was fermenting, and little bubbles were being born. We were then guided into the tasting room/boutique, where I was surrounded by satsuma-colored labels and clinking flutes. Salut!
Veuve-Clicquot was just the first stop on our Peerless-Rothman whirlwind tour of Champagne country, and while it started off a bit rocky (when prompted to describe Madame Cliquot from a somber late 19th-century photograph, Miami Spice declared she looked "mean," much to the tour guide's chagrin) it produced lots of great French memories. Like going to a small vineyard and being told "it's lunchtime, so come back later, if you want, but if it's never that's really fine with us too." Being the méchants we were, we loitered in their yard and let our toddlers ride on all their kids' toys while they finished their pot-au-feu. Not to worry, Miami Spice bought six bouteilles in preparation for her upcoming move to Miami. Then taking turns running into little garage-tasting rooms while the remaining parent stayed in the car with Josie and Nathalie watching Dora DVDs. I got to go for every turn, of course, so you do the math! We stayed in a completely freezing, hard-as-rock-mattress B and B but I had the best trout I've ever tasted (breaded in champagne, bien sûr!). It also capped off a string of fun road trips with Miami Spice and family -- including Strasbourg and the Alsace Wine Trail, Giverny, etc.
Oh, I think you are nice, Madame Clicquot. So niiiiiiiice.....
3. The Wailing Wall (and Jerusalem in general). I've only been Jewish for about nearly a quarter of my life. Still, in that time I've worn my Judaism on my sleeve -- celebrating holidays with gusto, embracing new traditions, helping to teach my daughter's non-Jewish schoolmates about our special celebrations, etc. After several missed opportunities to visit Israel over the years, we were thrilled when a work trip for Jeff took us to both Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. We arrived mid-afternoon in the Old City for our first look around; yet because of the latitude it was already dark. I can't really describe the experience of walking through the Jaffa Gate...Orthodox Jews hurrying to yeshiva. Narrow, labyrinthine streets full of Judaica vendors, each one promising you a better deal on their menorahs and mezuzahs than one next door. Catholic priests brushing by young Muslim men on the way to evening prayers. And I wasn't fully prepared for the rush of emotion I would feel when visiting the Wailing Wall. While I was a bit perturbed by the idea that Jeff and I couldn't approach the Wall together -- men and women visit the Wall in segregated sections -- it was incredibly powerful to see the wall and leave my prayer, one of tens of thousands stuffed into its cracks.
Waiting for Jeff while he visited the wall with the other mans
The next day Josie and I had the Old City to ourselves as Jeff attended meetings. This, too, was a day to remember, as I strapped Josie into our blessed old maroon MacLaren and bump-bump-ba-dumped up and down zillions of steps, thousands of years old, as I was determined to visit St. Ann, the "Singing Church," where pilgrims of any faith are welcome to come and sing inside. It was down at the bottom of the Muslim quarter, and quite charming, old, and lovely. I sang the Shema to Josie, and we exited the Lions' Gate to find the walk back to our hotel rocky and impassable. Luckily I was able to flag a taxi, but I learned a valuable lesson about planning walkabouts in ancient cities with toddlers via Google Maps.
I still remember my prayer, by the way, and it was answered.
2. Hugo's birth. What list of amazing moments would be complete without the birth of our beloved Meatball? The pregnancy - from horrible sickness to worse H & M maternity wardrobe to unbearable natural childbirth class - certainly had its ups and downs. Then one minute I was eating a super-spicy chicken jalfreizi and the next, there he was, all some kinda crazy metric weight and wild black hair! Well, in the middle there was some foggy mother-in-law interaction, illegal driving, swearing, inappropriate blackberrying, epidural fake-outs, more swearing, chipper midwives and fuzzy teacups, but it was a crazy ride we'll love telling him, play by play, until he's seventy or so. Because I pushed a human out of me without any pharmacological support, thank you very much. Don't ever do that if you can avoid it.
Right, well done you, shoving out that baby and a pound of afterbirth. Cup of tea?
1. Seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle for the first time as Parisians. It seems like in terms of sheer emotional value Hugo's birth should be number one, but if I have to choose one moment that encapsulates the whole European Vocation, it's always going to be that first night in Paris. We'd landed at 6am that morning, groggy as all get-out, to find a Paris that was... completely shut down, because it's Sunday. Between the outdoor organic market and our corner bodega we were able to cobble together a small lunch before crashing for that classic jet-lag nap. Because it was November, when we all woke up at 5pm it was dark. So we decided to stroll the Seine. We strapped Josie into the stroller, bundled up, and headed west down the quai. In front of the Tower we spotted a crepe vendor; we secured banana-nutella crepes (my favorite) and hot chocolates, and then -- at 9pm -- there it was. Sure, it was only 60 seconds of sparkling, but as we huddled together, holding Josie tight, when we really listened, we could hear the city murmur, "Welcome home."
Happy Euroversary, ma famille. Here's to another three! (or whatever we've got left!)
